The New Tenant at 221B
by thesherlockfix
Summary: Sherlock has taken up the hobby of building life-size robots that look just like humans. Meanwhile, bodies are mysteriously washing up on the waterfront. A fishy case, Sherlock doppelgangers, and extra tenants at 221B - stuck in the middle of all this, Watson may just be too normal to handle it all. (Watson's POV. Heavy on the detective work and case details. Johnlock tension.)
1. Chapter 1

"Open the door Sherlock, my hands are full." I don't know why I always ask. He never gets the door.

Just as I try to get my keys from my coat pocket, I hear the quick deliberate footsteps that can only be -

Sherlock opens the door, smiles at me, and grabs the bags of groceries. Something is off. Usual gray trenchcoat, blue scarf thrown around the neck. He sets the groceries on the table, turns around, and asks, "Why are you still standing in the doorway, dear Watson?"

"Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, why do you ask, dear Watson?"

I have to squint to look at him from head to toe because the blinds are drawn and I just stepped in from the mid-morning streets, but I can still tell there's something different. It's not exactly his hair, nor his face - at least not its structure. It might've been the speech. He's never called me by my surname, nor preceded it with such adjectives as to signify any sort of intimacy. But that's not all, either.

"You smiled at me!"

"Yes, dear Watson."

"No, I mean, genuinely. And you opened the door! And you relieved me of the groceries!" I pause. It dawns on me. "You were nice!"

"Yes, dear Wat -" BANG.

"Sherlock!" One second he was standing there in the dim living room, the next he is face-down on the carpet, a bullet having gone through his head right between the eyes. I didn't have time to react. The shooter must be in Sherlock's bedroom, that was the direction of the shot. I crouch down. My gun is inside and I don't even have the groceries to cover me should I be the gunman's next target. Sherlock is motionless. The dimness spares me the view of any blood that must no doubt be spurting out from his - No. This can't be happening. Please.

"Oh don't look so upset John, shock is a serious disadvantage." Sherlock ambles out of his bedroom, his aqua nightgown flowing about him, his feet shuffling in his sleep slippers, the pistol still smoking in his hand. He stops at the dead body, sniffs as if there were some allergen in the air, and fires a second shot on its back. The body twitches but does not otherwise respond. Just a bare discharge of remaining neural activity. No question about it, the person who may or may not be Sherlock is dead.

"N- No! What are you? Who are you?" I regain the strength in my legs and bolt toward the second Sherlock. He rolls his eyes as I pin him against the blinds. "Give me an explanation or I will - "

"Robot, John. Now hand me my phone, I need to text Lestrade."

I don't move. Just in case. How can I trust him?

"In my pocket, John. My phone."

"A robot?"

"Yes, yes, a robot," Sherlock answers impatiently. Sighing, he pushes me off him, retrieves his phone from his pocket, and ambles back into his room. "Clean up the remains, will you? I'm starting over," he calls out before closing the door.

I shut my eyes to register what has just happened. So that's what he's been doing all this week, locked up in his room. That explains the odd metallic tinkering at 3 in the morning, the hiss of pistons, the recent shipment of circuit boards and silicon. Not to mention the vats of flesh-colored mush he's been simmering on the stove. It must've been what he used for the skin. I knew there was something uncanny about the way it congealed in the fridge. As gingerly as I can, I approach the dead body - no - the defunct robot, and I pull up the blinds to let in the light. Now it is all visible. It's not that I couldn't see any blood earlier. There is no blood. The bullet zipped through a tangle of wires. I try to keep my hands from shaking as I flip it over onto its back; I don't like this. It's a robot made to look just like Sherlock and it was never alive but still I don't like this at all, looking down at the same face that I see every day. My best friend dead, now that is a sick idea. _But this is not Sherlock, John, _ I remind myself, _this is an invention. Created by Sherlock and subsequently destroyed -_ "Wait a second," I mutter. "Wait a second!"

I knock on his door. "Sherlock! What do you mean you're 'starting over'? You're making another one?" No response. "Because if you are, you should really let me know so I can be prepared to have two of you around." I glance back at the robot on the carpet. "Not that I mind one of you being so nice all the time. I was practically falling in love with this one here, it's a real shame you went ahead and shot it between the eyes." The door opens and Sherlock peers out at me, one eyebrow raised. I stare back, unflinching. The shock has dissipated by now. I've stopped shaking. "I don't think any robot could ever manage to pull off that particular look of disgust you wear."

"And I'd have never thought you'd fall for anyone with my face, _dear Watson."_

_"_Well what was wrong with that one anyways?" I quickly ask, pointing behind me.

"Subpar semantics. I must've forgotten to implement an additional element in its broca's circuit."

"What does that mean?"

"Semantics, John, its use of words."

I think back to the way it spoke. Polite, admittedly, but nothing egregiously wrong. Undoubtedly much more pleasant than the original himself.

"And why do you need a robot?"

"Obviously to project my insatiable narcissism onto an external body." He stares into me and I feel a burning in the back of my head. How does he do that? "I see you took that seriously."

"Oh."

"Experiment, John. Just an experiment. Don't worry your little head over it, you won't be able to tell the difference next time, I assure you. Now get ready, we're meeting Lestrade at the waterfront. New case. Bodies washing up." He looks around. "Have we done the laundry?"

"Uh, no, I don't believe so, not since the last case - Sh-Sherlock?" He'd slid past me and is now crouched next to the robot, stripping it of all clothing. Scarf. Coat. Shirt. Buckle. Pants. Well, everything. Sherlock pulls off his own nightgown and starts putting on the robot's outfit. I avert my gaze as he dresses but instead it lands on the robot, now naked. How odd, a robot being naked. The mimicry is the work of genius. Awkward, to say the least. I can't tell if I'm violating some rule of social conduct by looking at - no, examining - the body of a machine that looks identical to that of my long-term flatmate.

Sherlock pops his collar and adjusts his scarf as he heads out the door. "Coming?"

**Dead bodies washed up ashore, robots made in the image of Sherlock, and a very confused Watson. How will all these disparate elements develop as our duo delves into their newest case? Stay tuned for the next installment!**


	2. Chapter 2

It's not so bad when I see dead bodies here and there, but when 20 of them are lined up side by side on the gravel by the waterfront I admit it - I see shadows of Afghanistan. As the onsite doctor I had to scan down the row of heads, checking carotids, pupils, rigidity. Rigor mortis tells its own story. Which is fortunate, in my case, because the corpses cannot. I did this often, in uncomfortable excess, but nonetheless it made me an expert in certain parts of medical forensics.

Which is why I am now frustrated that I'm unable to tease out the story behind these corpses. They've soaked in the water for too long, sure, but there is something else that doesn't feel right. The odd thing is that some parts of the bodies are incredibly well-preserved while the rest are already decomposing. I go over the reported story: Bodies were washed up and found ashore. Locals called the neighborhood police. More bodies kept appearing, so the case inevitably ended up in Lestrade's division. Lestrade couldn't put his finger on this. So here we are.

"Anything, _doctor_?" Anderson's voice. Now that's something sure to bring the dead back to life.

"Not yet, I'm afraid," not bothering to make eye contact with him as I rise from my stooped position (no point in checking these carotids and pupils). "The bodies are preserved enough to run some tests but there's nothing more I can do at this point. We need to work out the rest at St. Bart's. Where's Sherlock?"

Anderson throws a disgusted glance behind him where Sherlock is collecting some water from the estuary into vials. He raises the filled vials above his head and squints as he stirs them. I walk up to him and realize he's muttering under his breath. "... sedimentation atypical. This soil is deeper down. Bodies weren't just washed up passively by the currents nor did they all drown at the same time, but you were going to tell me that."

"In fact, I was indeed -"

"Yes yes, but you've noticed that the bodies are abnormally well-preserved to different degrees, so we're thinking either they all drowned separately on separate occasions in these waters - possible but unlikely - or someone drowned them and planted them here for us to find. Which explains the disturbance of the deeper soil layers - from when the perpetrator pushed the corpses into the ground to ensure they don't just bob away, but disturbing the sediment layers in the process. And then there's the odd stiffness of the bodies -"

"But, rigor mortis - "

"But, you ask, isn't rigor mortis a normal feature of the post-mortem body? Yes, of course you know that. But the faces are bloated, the chests expanded, and the joints too stiff, much stiffer than plain old rigor mortis. So the question is, how did they die? We know certain poisons can lock muscles in place - succinylcholine in certain people, dopamine blockers - which could've been administered intravenously before storing the bodies in water for their skin to start decomposing..."

I can only stare and wait for the ultimate conclusion - the punchline - because there is no point in trying to follow his deductions. But he abruptly stops talking and furrows his brows. Then he shakes his head and mutters, "No, there's something else." His eyes graze the horizon and land on mine. He does this sometimes, just rest his gaze somewhere while he thinks. I've learned that when you look into his eyes, he isn't necessarily really looking back at _you_. You just happen to be there, just to transiently hold his gaze for him, just as if you were to hold his cup of tea for a bit, or his phone, or just whatever he asks you to hold while he does something more important. I don't think it matters _who_ takes on that role.

So I don't bother to look away. He wouldn't realize we're making eye contact anyways.

And just as suddenly as he stopped talking, he now smiles, tightens his scarf, and walks off. "Lestrade!" he gestures to the addressed, "I need one of these bodies in a bag in a cab to 221B. We're taking one home for a midnight snack."

Lestrade and Anderson share a confused look. I can't say I expected that either.

"For what?" Anderson asks.

"You're still here, Anderson?"

"Sherlock, seriously?" I catch up to him, eyeing the bodies on the gravel. "We can't store a whole body in the fridge, it's too small for that."

"John, don't be silly. Of course not."

I let out a sigh of relief.

"That's why I'll have to cut it up into smaller pieces, take out the main organs, slice up the heart - the heart often reveals the pathology - and of course there's the brain. Can't miss that." He rubs his hands together and I can't tell if I imagined him chuckling. Who am I kidding? Of course he just chuckled. "Lestrade, did you call the cab yet?"

Poor Greg is holding his phone in his hand like he doesn't know what to do with it.

"I'll call for one," I offered.

Sherlock has glided over to the row of bodies. Somebody has already handed him a body-sized bag, which he now holds in one hand, his other on his hip. I wonder if in some alternate universe where Sherlock does the groceries, if that's what he'd look like trying to pick out the freshest eggplant from the pile.

I can't get that image out of my head the entire ride back. Maybe it's a subconscious way to avoid thinking about the corpse in the back trunk that we'll soon haul up into the flat. What will Mrs. Hudson say?

And that's when I remember the robot. It's still lying there by the window, completely naked. I never had the chance to get rid of it, as Sherlock had asked. Not that I had the chance to. What has 221B come to?

"Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"You do realize we don't have much space for two extra deadweights. Not unless we leave one on the kitchen table, which I will not agree to, by the way."

"It won't be just the bodies, John. You forget the space I'll need for a thorough exploratory dissection, so I'll want a large hard surface to put the corpse on, but bigger than our kitchen table, and an enclosed space to contain the fumes."

"Where do we have this space?!"

He turns to me and, this time, actually sees me. Slowly, he leans in, close, too close. My own face looks back at me from the curvature of his cornea - I look ugly, distorted, bloated. He's smiling. "Your bedroom, of course. We'll just place a board on your bed and the corpse can lie on top of that."

"That will not do, Sherlock."

"Of course it will."

"No, it will not!" I burst out shouting. The cab driver glances at us through the rearview mirror but keeps quiet. Wise choice. He can't hear what we're saying but if one is loud enough he can. I restrain my voice. "You have to think about others, Sherlock. Where will John sleep? How will John feel about a decomposing body on his bed? In fact, maybe John should've been told about the robot too before thinking that he witnessed his friend getting shot in the head!"

"Is John done referring to himself in the third person?"

"I'm serious!" We're back on Baker St. I hand the bills to the driver and we get out, quick to remove the big black bag from the trunk. "I don't understand why we can't just bring it to St. Barts."

"Insomnia. I'm bored at night."

"So you play with the corpse at night? Fine. But what about me? I don't have insomnia. I need to sleep!"

"That's why you'll sleep in my bed. Now hold the bag, I need to open the door."

**The plot thickens and 221B is getting crowded! What does Sherlock have in mind? How will John make sense of his conflicting feelings about the case and Sherlock's approach? And what will happen to the broken robot still lying there in the living room? Stay tuned for the next installment of "The New Tenant at 221B"!**


End file.
